


Speculation and Investment

by merellia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Investment Banking AU, M/M, Slow Build, emotionally_constipated!Derek, oblivious!Stiles, preslash, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merellia/pseuds/merellia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a lowly Analyst at Hale Capital.  Sometimes his days begin well. Sometimes they start with Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> This and the following chapters are vignettes for an AU in which Stiles works in a Manhattan investment banking firm. I'll edit tags as matters develop. And in the interests of fair disclosure: I am not an Investment Banker (IANAIB)! All I know about IB I learned on the Internet. 
> 
> Characters and inspiration come mainly from developments through season two, though I may add in elements from season three as they catch my interest.
> 
> Also: I'm writing many of these vignettes out of sequence, but sorting them into chronological order until things get properly set up for Derek/Stiles and the Alpha Pack bit. When I update, I'll note here which is the most recently added chapter. 6/25: New Chapter 11 inserted.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's too early for work, but that doesn't stop Derek.

When his phone rings, Stiles is certain that he only closed his eyes a minute ago. Unfortunately, it’s the Imperial Death March. That means he’s at home—he’s more than capable enough to have programmed his phone to use a different ringtone at work—and it’s Derek.

He rolls over and fumbles at the bedside table, blinking blearily at the phone display. It informs him that the time is an ungodly 6:30am. And Monday. His apartment’s steam heaters haven't even started their early-morning warming cycle yet, and he got home from the closing dinner at Sounde only four hours ago. 

He accepts the call, trying to swallow some moisture into his mouth, which tastes like corpse. (He probably shouldn't have had the third pumpkintini, but it's October, and Stiles is a sucker for seasonal cocktails.) “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” Gah. Derek already sounds pissed; just what Stiles needs.

“Home.”

“I need you here.”

“I thought you wanted me to come in at seven.”

“I need you now. You have to send out the status report for the Bouley project.” There’s a click, and Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear to look at it, but knows what he’ll see: the call’s already over.

Stiles resists the urge to throw the phone across the room, and rolls back over to blink at his bedroom ceiling. He resentfully starfishes his arms and legs wide, imagining how Derek would grumble at Stiles for stealing the sheets and edging him off the bed.

Derek, however, has never been to Stiles’ apartment. Nor have they shared a bed.

Mornings like this, Stiles sometimes wonders why he works at Hale Capital. But the answer is not hard to figure out.


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the start of Stiles’ first year, and introductions can be a bit strained, sometimes.

Stiles had been beyond delighted when he had finished his junior year Summer Analyst internship and received the full-time offer of a position with Hale Capital: it was one of the top ten boutique firms in New York’s investment banking scene (as rated by the _Wall Street Journal_ ; _Werewolf Financials Quarterly_ called Hale Capital “the financial district’s hybrid star,” and praised it for both its “cutthroat but straight investments deals” and “were-human relations”), and he’d liked their emphasis on the ethics of banking, even though Matt, his college roommate, always laughed when Stiles juxtaposed those two terms.

But Stiles persisted, and even got a smile out of Scott when he mentioned the staff diversity—many of the firm’s managing directors were werewolves, those who weren’t born offered the bite upon hiring or promotion from Associate, but not all were, with at least half the Associates human and the majority of Analysts, too.

“That’s because analysts are worker monkeys,” Scott had said in a rare show of cynicism.

“They’re not being speciesist!” Stiles had protested. “They hire based on merit. And you don’t _have_ to be bitten to make Associate or MD. Plus I could take a job elsewhere after my first or second years, if I wanted.”

Scott grinned. “Which you won’t have to worry about, dude, because you’re going to drop some director’s coffee in his lap and get fired in your first week.”

“Am not, you dick,” Stiles had said, and hit Scott on the shoulder. He then yelped and shook his hand, but Stiles still counted his point as made.

The summer training after he graduated had been a whirlwind of speakers discussing Excel, accounting, valuation, and finance, plus new faces after new faces as he was assigned to one department after another. (“All June and July I've been in school still,” he’d groaned to his father, who was markedly unsympathetic. “You were the one who chose a history major and then decided on a job in finance,” his Dad had said. “Splitting hairs! The point is, I’ve got _more exams_ in a week!”)

And then, at the start of August and the end of his training, he was assigned to the Investments Management department. It hadn’t been his top choice—he’d liked everyone he’d met, and the directors had seemed interested in his case study presentation, but he thought he’d sunk any chance of working with them because of the thing with the copier.

He’d only climbed on top of it just for a minute to reach the last reams of paper on the shelf above. It was the quickest option, and he had been in a hurry. But first he’d forgotten about the split in his pants that had happened when he had snagged them on one of the subway poles on his way in to work (staples and tape were the plan to make it until lunchtime—only they weren’t holding up well), and then he had kneed the “start” button.

That was when an Associate in IM, Derek Hale, had walked into the copy room. He had glanced at the pages the copier was busy spitting out, looked at Stiles’ red face, and said flatly, “Liberty Street, between Broadway and Church. Brooks Brothers. Make me twenty-five copies of this report before you go.”

But even after that, Stiles had been assigned to Investments Management.


	3. Worst Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How a day for Stiles, Awesome Analyst* at Hale Capital, can start off rather badly.
> 
> * Stiles wanted this to be the title on his business card, but Derek quashed that plan.

It’s a Friday in mid-September, and Stiles has only been at work an hour. He can already tell it’s going to be one of his Worst Days. In one window, he is revising the presentation for the Trieme Investments project, and Managing ~~Asshole~~ Director Peter Hale hasn’t stopped calling to ask, “Are you done yet?” every fifteen minutes. He’s also emailing Derek with the most recent versions of the Nondisclosure Agreements they’re executing for the Beacon Industries project.

Nearly through attaching the files, his office door opens and Derek sticks his head in. “Where are the NDAs, Stiles? I need—” 

Stiles clicks and says, “Just emailed them to you now.”

“Did you—”

Stiles tabs back to the presentation and copies in some notes. “Erica in Legal says she needs you to review them first.” Stiles had had to promise Erica, whom he hadn't even met yet, a drink for her to agree to fast-track the NDAs, but Stiles was okay with bribes if they helped Derek. Maybe. Possibly. On a rare occasion.

Derek glares at him. “I’ve recommended you as staff on the upcoming Fairness Opinion for the Argents deal,” he says viciously, and pulls Stiles’ door shut with a sound that’s not a bang only because of sensitive werewolf ears.

Stiles stares at the door, caught between wanting to stick out his tongue—not very dignified, even he admits—and cursing—not the greatest idea because, see above: werewolf ears. Shifter-friendly corporate soundproofing only goes so far. He now regrets promising Erica anything on Derek's behalf. Derek is clearly an antisocial jerk, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s being rewarded or punished with the new staffing appointment.

His phone rings. He picks it up, and before he can even say his name, Peter says in the silky-smooth tones that always give Stiles the creeps, “Stilinski, I like you. But I see I was misinformed regarding your efficiency.”

Definitely a Worst Day.


	4. Ups and Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets corrected, corrected, and corrected. It’s very aggravating.

Stiles starts the day off intelligently by stopping by the office of Boyd, a second-year analyst, on the way to his. He knocks, and then at Boyd’s quiet invitation, sticks his head in the door. “Boyd, man, thanks for your comments on the Bouley presentation. I appreciate it.”

Boyd nods equably. “No problem, Stiles.”

Stiles grins. “I owe you one,” he says, and then ducks out, untwining his scarf and leaving it, his suitcase, and his suit jacket over his office chair before heading to Binding.

They’ve finished with his order, so he makes a couple trips to take the booklets to his office, stacking them in two towers on either side of his monitor. They’re for his first out-of-town trip—three months in! He’s doing awesomely well—with his team that will have him working with a client, and he eyes the stacks of neatly-bound booklets with an admiring eye: he’d gotten them all finished and corrected around ten last night, and they are wondrous objects of papery perfection.

Derek enters in the midst of this pleasant reverie, and Stiles tries to mask his start as the door opens unexpectedly with a grin. “Good morning!”

Derek grunts an acknowledgement, and then asks with his customary terseness, “You’re presenting to Bouley this afternoon.” He’s always serious; even his questions come out as assertions.

“Yeah?” Stiles confirms, uncertain as to what’s going on.

“I looked over your Powerpoint. There’s an error in the earnings projection on slides forty-one and sixty-seven. Fix that. Then check the rest in case the error’s elsewhere.”

Stiles pales. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Thank you. I’ll fix it right away.”

Derek just nods, surly and rough-shavenly handsome as ever. Stiles wonders if he ever smiles; if so, Stiles hasn’t yet seen evidence. “Do that.”

Derek’s barely left and Stiles is paging through the Powerpoint in the throes of humiliated agony at having been the caught making an error by an associate when another first-year analyst in IM, Arif, enters. “Did you read the email from George in IT yet?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Haven’t had a chance.” 

Arif’s expression is gleeful. “We got put on the porn distro!”

“No, seriously? There’s a porn distro?” Stiles laughs in disbelief, making another correction to the Powerpoint. Maybe he went home too early last night. 

Arif says, “Yeah, whatever gets blocked by the servers, George in IT collects and sends ‘round to all the junior employees. There was one with a mime--”

Stiles tries to imagine Kat’s or Heather’s response to the email, and then resolves never to contribute to it himself. “Oh, ugh, no mimes! This is a mime-free zone. Also, porn embargoes are us. Stop on all porn. I want to see no one’s fantasies but my own.”

Arif’s expression falls. “But, man,” he begins, when one of the other IM associates, Jackson, knocks perfunctorily and then enters.

He’s one of Stiles’ least favorite people in IM, and he reinforces that impression by smiling unpleasantly at Stiles. “Stilinski, that the Bouley pitch book?” He nods to the stacks by Stiles’ computer.

“Yeah…?” Stiles confirms hesitantly.

“I want you to switch the sections on credentials and case studies. And you need to do it pronto. We’re leaving for Chicago in two hours.” He leaves after giving Stiles a big grin. “Thanks for all the help, sport.”

Arif stands, too, before Stiles reaches out to snatch his sleeve. “Oh, no, you’re giving me a hand with this. Sixty pitch books! You do half.”

Arif looks at the stacks of spiral-bound booklets in dismay. “This will take forever,” he moans. “Why don’t we just re-print it.”

Stiles shoves the top book at him, and takes the next for himself. “No, this will be faster. We’ll remove the coils, switch the sections, and then take them back to the binding machine for it to re-do.”

An hour and a half later, they’re finishing up when Jazmin, another first-year analyst, wanders in. She’s Stiles’ other least favorite person in IM, and this morning is shaping up beautifully in all the wrong ways. “Jackson said you might need a hand rebinding some pitch books?”

Stiles drops the last of them on his desk. “Just finished. Thanks, though,” he says sourly.

“Oh, alright.” Clearly, she is unversed in sarcasm. And next she provides more fuel for Stiles’ dislike, giving him a serene smile as she says, “Then I guess I’ll go to lunch. See you later.”

“No you won’t, I’ll be out of town!” Stiles calls after her, but the door closes before he’s sure she heard. 

He sighs.


	5. Matters of Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is unexpected more than once, and Stiles argues with Jackson over drinks.

Stiles rocks his presentation. And even dinner with the client’s group, about which he was worried—what if he picked the wrong entree? What if Scott’s prediction finally came through and Stiles dumps his food or drink in someone’s lap?—goes smoothly. The weirdest thing that happens is that Derek brushes past him to take the empty seat next to Jackson, leaving to Stiles the chair between Derek and an analyst from the client team, Madison. 

Stiles shrugs (maybe Derek likes Jackson, though, wow, that would take some tolerance, but they’re both associates and werewolves, so maybe that’s it) and Madison makes a comment to Stiles about his presentation, which is familiar ground by now, and Stiles says something intelligent about an article he’d read that morning in the _Wall Street Journal_ , and they have a good conversation about China’s entry into trading carbon dioxide permits.

After the dinner with the client’s team, Madison and Stiles exchange business cards—yay, another professional network contact for Stiles!—and the two groups part ways. Stiles ends up at the hotel bar with his coworkers for another round before bed and their redeye back to New York. He relaxes at last and begins to feel like celebrating. He is an Awesome Analyst! His will be the youngest name ever entered into the Annals of Awesome Analysts! It is perhaps this confidence, plus an Autumn Harvest Martini, plus tolerance lowered from too many late nights and too much poor food, plus a rich dinner with drinks all on the expense account, that has him arguing with Derek.

But first he ends up trading barbed comments with Jackson. When their drinks arrive, Jackson eyes Stiles’ skeptically. It’s a lovely cider-orange color with allspice-and-sugar rimmed around the martini glass and a curl of burnt cinnamon stick as garnish. “What _is_ that, Stilinski?” 

Stiles gets defensive, and says, “An Autumn Harvest Martini.” He takes a sip and tastes ginger and orange liqueur and apple brandy, and adds, “It’s delicious.” Stiles is confident in his sexuality and sees nothing emasculating about liking cocktails. 

Anandi, a third-year analyst and often a peacemaker, says equably, “It looks very Octobery, Stiles. What are you drinking, Jackson?”

Jackson mutters something. Stiles grins, having already recognized the drink. “He’s having a Jägerbomb,” and then adds slyly, “A frat house classic.” It’s also a bit of a politicized drink since Jägermeister had been developed by a hunter; many werewolves refused to drink it on those grounds alone, and it was the drink favored by a lot of Separatists for that reason, too.

“With wolfsbane,” Jackson growls, now on the defensive. While werewolves might participate in social drinking, only the depressant effects of a particular variant of wolfsbane would allow them to experience something approaching the regular effects of alcohol.

Stiles prudently decides to be distracted, and grimaces at a clip showing in the television above their hotel bar. He nods to it. “The Star Trek reboot was kind of disappointing, I thought.”

Derek looks around from his low-voiced conversation with Laura to the television. He hesitates, then says, “Supernovas can’t destroy galaxies.” 

Stiles gives him a delighted grin. “Yeah! Plus, red matter: it can create black holes, wormholes, and apparently whatever the plot needs.”

“There was no rationale behind stripping the Federation of the majority of its Fleet by sending so many ships to the same location at the same time,” Derek grumps into his beer. 

Stiles is not sure why he ever thought Derek was expressionless and dour. He is clearly a man of discernment and insight. And handsome. He doesn’t ever have to smile if he doesn’t want to; it’s overrated, and he’s hot anyway. “Yeah!” Stiles says again, proud of himself for having introduced this winning topic of conversation.

Kat, the other third-year analyst on the team, nods. “Also the uniforms for women sucked. They could update the Enterprise’s technology, but giving the women something to wear other than 60s miniskirts and go-go boots was one change too many? Puh-lease,” she drawls, gesturing with her glass of beer.

“I am surrounded by geeks,” Laura mourns into her whiskey, its wolfsbane-laced ice cube clinking against the glass as she takes a generous swallow.

“I’m not a geek,” Jackson says irritably, then—to Stiles’ success-hazed gaze—seems to rethink his position. He smiles hopefully at Laura. “I’m really not a geek.”

Laura snorts, disdainful as only a Hale Capital Vice President and the head of a team who has just completed a successful client visit can be. “Too bad. It would be an improvement.”

Kat, Stiles, and Anandi all snerk from the allied shores of Analyst-dom. Derek glares at Jackson. “Don’t mess with my sister.”

“Derek, shut up. I can take care of myself,” Laura snaps, and then turns her own formidable glare on Jackson. “Don’t even think it.”

“Okay, okay,” Jackson whines, dropping his gaze. Stiles doesn’t know if Jackson had been bitten or born, bit if he’d been bitten, whoever was responsible should have had his or her brain checked. “Fuck, it was just a joke.”

Anandi, politic as ever, says quietly, “It is not a day for quarreling. Our client was happy with our work; we have done well.”

Amenable to the change in mood, Laura grins at Stiles, “And our baby analyst survived his first client presentation!”

Jackson sneers, but Kat and Derek also tip their drinks in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles pinkens and takes another swallow from his martini. “It was an awesome film, anyway.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees.

Stiles thinks Derek is stupidly hot, and usually a jerk, but he has good taste in movies.


	6. Hardening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rule of Investment Banking #5: Harden the fuck up

It’s an early afternoon in late October, and Stiles is waiting to hear back from Heather on the Trieme project, has just sent out corrections Derek had asked for on the Beacon Industries model, and the team meeting for the Triskele Technologies project isn’t due to begin for another few minutes. He has downtime! Stiles takes a bite of the sub and curly fries that Arif had fetched him for lunch and does a happy chair dance, glad for the privacy of an office that a boutique firm like Hale Capital, has afforded him.

After some consideration of his upcoming schedule and his wardrobe, Stiles orders some new underwear and, after further consideration, new socks as well. As long as he can get to the dry cleaner’s this weekend, he’ll be set for shirts and pants for a while.

He then makes a cautious foray onto Facebook, and sees that Scott is also on, so can’t resist leaving a message on his wall: _Some of us are still working while you goof off, dude! Managed to win at Farmville yet?_ Hah! Stiles fails to stifle a grin as he imagines Scott’s indignant response. 

He finishes off the sub and fries, checks email—still no word from Heather—and then shuffles together some of the papers he needs for the meeting.

He can hear the Managing Director shouting before he even enters the conference room. “That’s very kind of you, Jackson. Now shut up! We’re on a schedule here! And where’s Bilinski, anyway? Bilinski!”

“Here, I’m here,” Stiles says as he rushes in, “And it’s Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski, with an ‘s.’”

The MD, a werewolf named Finstock, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like anyone would name their kid ‘Stiles’ if their last name also began with an ‘s.’ Most reasonable parents try to avoid giving other kids reasons to beat up on their kid, and this meeting is not going to be about your sad, traumatic childhood, Bilinski! Now sit!”

Stiles has already sat, but he decides not to comment on that when Finstock gets suspicious of how the Associate, Jackson, is grinning. Finstock’s focus soon changes, however, as he begins laying out the client’s issues, along with his own demands. Stiles’ heart sinks as the work begins to pile up—no more downtime at work for a while, that’s clear, especially when Finstock says, “And this model you worked up, Bilinski, it’s no good.”

“What?” Stiles asks, alarmed and trying to ignore Jackson’s smirk. “I know the calculations are solid—” 

“Yes, yes, you’re the god of calculations, but who cares about that?” Finstock asks, and Stiles really, _really_ wants to say that’s, like, his _job_ , but bites his tongue as Finstock continues. “No, it’s the metrics. We need to look at Triskele in a whole new light! I want you to do a new model, only this time, develop total-value metrics that align incentives and interests. And get it to Jackson by tomorrow morning so he can begin working on the client presentation.”

Stiles nods dumbly, foreseeing an all-nighter ahead. Good thing he bought some new underwear. 

“Okay then! We’re done here. Go on, go on, asses out of your chairs! No more lazing about at meetings for you. To work and the greater profit of all!”


	7. Investment Banking Rule #9: It never gets easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles ends up missing Thanksgiving with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, Beacon Hills is a small town in upstate New York, near the city of Beacon in Dutchess County, and nearest the Harlem Line on Metro-North.

It’s Wednesday evening, and Stiles pulls out his cell phone. He reluctantly hits the favorites and calls his father. “Hi, Dad,” he says when his father answers.

“Stiles!” His dad sounds happy to hear him. “If you’re calling to tell me I can’t buy bacon for the turkey dressing, I have already done the shopping.”

“No, I—” Stiles swallows. “I’m, uh, not going to be able to make it home for tomorrow. There’s a presentation book I have to prepare for Friday.”

“Oh, son.” Stiles feels like the wretchedest son ever. 

It’s clear that his father is struggling to be cheerful, and Stiles rushes ahead with, “I can, I can make it on Saturday. We’ll save the turkey for then, yeah?”

“Of course,” his dad says immediately. “Thanksgiving Saturday, we’ll set a new trend.”

Feebly, Stiles adds, “And maybe tomorrow, you and Melissa . . . ?”

“I’ll be fine, Stiles,” his father says. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Right, Saturday. Bye, Dad,” Stiles says, depressed, and closes the call. He’d made it home for every Thanksgiving throughout college, has been with his dad for every major holiday since his mother died. He stares at the phone blankly, then sighs and puts it face down on his desk’s corner. Pitches wait for no man. Or holiday.

“Stiles.”

Startled, Stiles jerks. “Oh shit!” He almost topples his chair over until, flailing, he manages to right himself. “Fuck.” Derek is staring at him. “Um, did you—” _Did you hear,_ he wants to ask. _That was a private conversation. Knock first!_ But none of these comments will get him any farther ahead with the associate. He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I was distracted and didn’t realize you’d come in,” he says, and tries for a grin. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you to make these corrections,” Derek says. He hands Stiles a stack of papers with penciled notes over them. “I need them tonight.”

“Right,” Stiles says, heart sinking, “Can do.” Derek leaves and Stiles begins to start on the corrections. In the background of his desktop, the open window for the Campbell and Markham presentation book is a burning reminder.

He finishes the corrections around ten, and goes home, stopping at the gym on the way for an hour’s workout, because otherwise (he thinks morosely) all he does is sit at his desk, run around with papers, sit at meetings, and run to catch airplanes, where he sits some more. On the other hand, it won’t take much longer before he earns enough money to pay off the second mortgage his father took out on their house for Stiles’ mother and Stiles’ college.

That is still meager comfort the next morning, which dawns gray and dark and November-cold, and Stiles trudges unhappily to the subway. It’s running slower thanks to the holiday schedule. His usual commute takes almost twice the time, and he’s barely able to cheer up even over the fact that he got to both sleep in and have breakfast while sitting down at the table in his apartment.

Midmorning, he gets a text from Scott: _dude at trains where r u_ and curses—he’s forgotten to message Scott his changed travel plans. They were going to catch Metro North together to Beacon Hills. His reply is equally brief, though at least he uses capitals and punctuation: _Got stuck at work._

Scott’s message pings him a moment later: _sux 2 b u lol_

Stiles writes back, _Take my dad some turkey, okay?_ and is contented by the knowledge that that message alone ensures Melissa will make Stiles’ dad come over for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, if his dad has taken someone else’s shift (and, face it, he probably has with no son returning home, and all his deputies have families), Melissa and Scott will bring something to the station for him.

Arif and Kat are also in the office, and around eleven they discuss going out for lunch—the building cafeteria is closed—but it has begun to rain. Stiles starts to poke around on Seamless for some options, but he’s already ordered from all the open restaurants listed. At least twice over. And nothing new has opened in weeks. Apathetically, he finally settles on a vending machine sandwich, chips, and soda.

By five, Arif and Kat have left. Stiles is still working on the damned presentation book, though he’s made headway and won’t be much longer before he’s done. 

“Stiles.”

“Oh my god!” he shrieks, jerked out of his zone on the computer. He glares at Derek, who stands in Stiles’ office doorway, and loses control of his brain-mouth filter. “One of these days I’m going to have a heart attack and _die_ , and Hale Capital will get its biggest Workers’ Comp suit _ever_ because you can’t knock!”

“You’re not going to die.”

“That won’t stop my lawsuit, and I will _bankrupt you all_ ,” Stiles hisses.

“I need you to help me proof the Bouley report,” Derek says, and walks out. 

“Damnmit,” Stiles curses, and gets up from his desk to follow.

Derek’s office always surprises Stiles. The walls are grey, like that of the rest of the suite, but Derek’s chair is upholstered in a rich burgundy that matches the lamp on his desk. It has a bulb that gives off warm, natural light and almost makes up for the lack of a window. It pleases both the abundant, ferny plant in a round-bellied pot beneath the lamp and Stiles. A noteboard above Derek’s shoulder and a large painting with saturated blues and greens and burgundy brighten up the walls of the small space.

Derek points to the chair opposite him and Stiles sits. Derek shoves some papers at him, and Stiles obediently begins to read. “You could speed this up if you proofread on a tablet and changed the files directly,” he grumbles.

“I proofread more effectively on paper.”

“Hm.” Stiles falls silent, then grabs a pencil from Derek’s pen cup and makes a note. 

A few minutes later, Derek says, “Stiles, stop it.”

“Huh?” Stiles looks up at Derek, who is staring at him pointedly. He looks at his papers, then at the pencil he’s been flipping back and forth between his fingers. “Oh, sorry,” he says, and then goes back to proofing. 

A few pages later, he’s tracking down copies of a typo in the stocks value. . . .

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?” Stiles pauses, jigging his leg more slowly, and the desktop’s trembling slows with him. “Right. Stopping. Sorry.”

Stiles is now reduced to gnawing on the pencil eraser—right, he’s never giving this pencil back to Derek, covered with his spit and teethmarks; Derek would probably stab him with it—when Derek pushes his half of the report to the side and fishes around under his desk to bring out a stack of tupperwares.

He also brings out a plate and silverware and a bottle of water. Opening the tupperwares, he begins to portion out some food: slices of turkey, spoonfuls of stuffing, mashed potatoes, more. Stiles watches, riveted, until Derek takes up his fork, and Stiles hastily drops his gaze back to the report. He blindly makes a note for another correction.

But he can’t turn off his nose, and the food smells delicious. The stuffing is redolent with onion and parsley, bread and butter, and the sweet, fruity scent of cranberry teases Stiles with its scent. He swallows against a rush of saliva. Trying for a distraction, he bites down on the eraser, hard.

Derek sighs. There’s a scrape of china against the desktop, and Derek says, “Here.” 

“What?” Stiles jerks his gaze up, first looking at the untouched plate that has been nudged towards him, then at Derek, who holds out a fork to Stiles.

“Your stomach is so loud I can’t get anything done. So eat.” 

Disbelieving, Stiles takes the fork. “But it’s your dinner.”

Derek shrugs and opens a desk drawer to rifle through it. He pulls out a paper plate. “There’s more. Hurry up. I want to get this done so I can leave.”

Stiles tries to wait until Derek has served himself again, but the associate scowls at Stiles’ plate and looks about to say something, so Stiles takes a hasty bite. The turkey is still warm and so tender it almost melts in Stiles’ mouth, savory with a thick mushroom gravy and dressing. Stiles nearly moans. “ _S’wunnerful_ ,” he mumbles, helping himself to a bigger forkful of mashed potatoes, pungent with garlic and creamy with butter. 

He glances over at Derek, wanting to ask about the food, the recipes, but Derek’s scowl seems even more pronounced as he looks back at Stiles, and Stiles decides silence is a better policy. The faster he eats, the sooner he can return to proofreading. 

But the meal is too good to hurry through, and soon Stiles tries to proofread another couple pages of the report while continuing to eat. He’ll take a bite for every page he finishes: it’ll be a great bribe for himself! As he flips to another page, he sucks thoughtfully on the fork tines. 

“Fuck, Stiles, hurry up!” Derek snaps after a few more minutes of this, and Stiles’ glance jerks to him in shock as he takes the fork out of his mouth in inquiry. Derek’s red-faced in apparent irritation as he dumps his now-empty plate into the office trash can.

Stiles can add two and two together. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just—it’s so _good_ ,” Stiles says, and hastily shovels a few final mouthfuls in, as much as he can chew on at once.

Derek watches him, clearly appalled. “That is sick,” he manages after clearing his throat. “Don’t you dare open your mouth until you’ve finished.”

Stiles rolls his eyes in eloquent disdain. He does have manners! He eyes the red smear of cranberry he’s left on his plate, considering.

“Do _not_ lick the plate, Stiles,” Derek instructs sharply.

Stiles finally chews enough so he can swallow. “I wasn’t going to!” he says, full of dignity as he licks his lips instead. “I just wanted to ask if I could have the recipe.”

“No. Proofread.”

Stiles heaves a sigh as he returns to task. Comfortably full with a great meal, even the tedious job of proofreading seems like marginally lighter work. Eventually, he finishes to the satisfaction of Derek—who then leaves Stiles with all the corrections to add back to the report files. Stiles does, and completes his work on the Campbell and Markham presentation book, and heads home around nine. Not too late.

As he sits on the subway car, he thinks over the meal. Maybe he could make that cranberry glaze instead of gravy for his dad on Saturday. It had tasted sweet, but there’d been some citrus in it, too. Perhaps orange zest would do it. . . .

Around nine Friday, he arrives at work in the usual rush, and learns that Campbell and Markham have called to cancel the pitch meeting that morning. No need for the presentation book after all, he thinks dourly, looking at the stacks of it piled next to his desk. Sometimes his job sucks.


	8. Nuts, no honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes one feels like a stooge; sometimes one is a stooge.

By mid-December, the Campbell and Markham deal has gone live, which means that some distant descendant of the Thanksgiving presentation book has actually seen the light of day (although it didn’t even get opened at the pitch meeting because Peter Hale is just that good); Stiles has been to D.C. and back three times in two weeks; Peter, micromanaging has ever, impatiently calls Stiles every eighteen minutes with new requests; and Stiles now knows more than he’d ever expected about energy utility assets in Australia.

But there’s still a moment for a breather here and there, which is why Stiles picks up his phone when it dings, and reads a message from Scott: _im in love :) :)_. It’s ten and Scott should already be in his cubicle at Argent Ventures where he’s a junior financial officer. Stiles has been to their offices a couple of times on errands—Argent and Hale are working on a deal, though it’s the slowest one Stiles has seen unfold so far; Argent keeps canceling and sending reports back for corrections—though he’s never seen Scott there, yet.

Stiles eyes the text skeptically, and types back, _With Madam Palm and her five daughters?_

He sends it, snorts a laugh to himself at a new idea, and quickly types a second message, _You know if you keep doing that, you’ll grow hair on your hands!_

He grins, and of course that’s when Derek enters, not knocking as per usual and giving Stiles’ cellphone the hairy eyeball. Stiles jumps up and grabs a sheaf of papers, trying to distract him with a hurried, “Here, just finished with the dataset for Bouley, all done!”

Behind him, Stiles’ phone gives a distinctly audible ping.

Derek says flatly, “For the Beacon project. Find me a map of all wells in the area.”

Stiles’ phone pings again.

“Oh, sure, can do. Uh, do you want present wells, or those also in development?” Stiles winces as his phone pings once more.

Derek says, “Since you have free time, both.”

Stiles refuses to flinch at the comment and grins instead. “Sure thing! When do you want it, now? Do you want me to email you, or do you want a print-out? I can do either. Or both! Just let me know,” he adds loudly over the sound of three more pings.

Derek just looks disgusted and leaves.

Stiles flops back down into his chair. “Fuuuuuuuuck,” he groans, picking up his stupid, stupid phone, and sets a new location-specific change so that texts from Scott will no longer make noise at work.

Then, of course, he reads the messages.

_shut up_  
 _ur an assohole_  
 _she is butiful_  
 _she works @ work_  
 _bought her coffee_  
 _her name is allison_

Stiles types back, _You dick, sent so many texts that one of the associates heard them!_

A minute later, Scott writes back, _y do u hav ur phone on @ wrk luser_ like the hypocritical jerk he is, and before Stiles can reply, adds, _i thought u investmnt bnker types r always buzy_ , and then adds again, _slacker_.

Stiles grumbles, but replies quickly, _5:30pm, Ear Inn, don’t be late_ , and resolutely puts down his phone. 

Checking his email, he finds a note from Jazmin, whom he really hopes gets fired soon, or at the very least won’t be invited back for a second year. Last week, she’d printed out only one side of a double-sided document—though it ended up not mattering, since the document was for the wrong company anyway. _How do I validate data in Excel?_ she wants to know because she was probably out for an extended lunch during their summer training, and Stiles forwards her the response he sent her previously about this, passively-aggressively not adding any other note. _Thx!_ she replies with galling obliviousness.

Stiles supposes it’s a day.


	9. Unexpected Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Derek says to Stiles, and pauses awkwardly.

Midway through the first morning the markets are open after New Year’s, Stiles has already scheduled a conference call for the Triskele Technologies project, a meeting for the Trieme Investments team, and has begun sorting through public documents for historical data about Martin Industries—all still while on his first coffee—when Derek comes to Stiles’ office.

Stiles is made immediately uneasy by the fact that Derek knocks first before entering. This is unprecedented. Derek never knocks; it’s like Stiles’ door has been an open window for him to breeze through whenever he wanted. His unease increases as he takes in Derek’s expression. “What?” 

“Stiles,” Derek says. He shuts the office door. _He shuts the door._

For one fantastical moment Stiles entertains the notion of hot office sex—though, no, soundproofing wouldn’t be adequate; Stiles is a bit noisy, not to mention that the day is already shaping up to be busy and other people will knock on Stiles’ door at any moment—before other possibilities occur to him as Derek sits down on the spare chair.

Stiles can literally feel his blood pressure dropping. “Oh my god, you learned about that thing in tenth grade. I swear, it was an _accident_. I was investigating! I was helping my Dad! I’m not a Separatist, oh god, please don’t fire me.”

“Stiles, shut up.”

“Shutting up,” Stiles says faintly.

“So,” Derek says, and then pauses awkwardly. It’s the first time Stiles has seen him, usually a confident (if overworked) and immensely capable associate, appear flustered.

When the pause seems likely to continue for several minutes, Stiles swallows and tries to—he can barely believe himself; he’s helping Derek _fire_ him—say encouragingly, “Yes?”

Derek shifts, resting his hands on his thighs. “You know that Hale Capital is a firm invested in our employees’ success,” he recites woodenly, eyes darting toward the door as if he wished it would open up and swallow him.

“And I’m successful!” Stiles bursts into frantic self-defense. “I’m a great researcher, everyone says so! And my, my financial models are magic, especially the one for Beacon Industries, you even said—”

“Yes,” Derek interrupts, beginning to scowl at Stiles, who peters into a feeble silence. “I said so. And as your mentor—”

“Wait,” says Stiles, blinking. “You’re my mentor?”

Derek visibly grits his teeth. “Yes, I’m your mentor.”

Stiles boggles at him. “Since when?”

Derek’s expression tightens, and Stiles realizes that the Associate looks guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. “Since you were assigned to IM,” he says at last, reluctantly.

Stiles can barely believe what he’s hearing. “You’ve been my mentor for, like, _six months_ , and I only learned about this _now_?”

Derek’s gaze drops, and he mutters something.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that.”

“Your performance review is overdue,” Derek says at last, and he sounds accusing. As if this were all _Stiles’_ fault.

Stiles experiences a qualm—performance reviews are the first step in firing someone, he knows from Erica, who had to handle a nasty dust-up about that with HR last month—before his mind trips over the details. If Hale Capital had wanted to fire him, they wouldn’t have let a scheduled performance review slide by. He lets out a gusting sigh, almost flinging himself back in his chair in relief. “How overdue?”

“Three months,” Derek says to Stiles’ growing tickle of humor. He forges ahead before Stiles can say anything this time. “And so, as your mentor, it is incumbent upon me to meet with you to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of your work at Hale, that we can build towards your greater success in the future.” He’s back to reciting again, as if he’d memorized the words—or, the thought occurs to Stiles, as if he’s repeating something he’d been told recently. Forcefully. And in the face of what was probably great reluctance to engage an anything that smacked of personal interaction, the stupid robot.

“My greater success,” Stiles says, and grins, quickly cheering up. “Sure, yeah, we can do that. Review my performance. Um, so—” his phone rings, and he gestures to it. “You wanna do that now? Or—”

“Not now,” Derek says, almost flinging himself out of the chair and Stiles’ office. “Lunch. Tomorrow. Schedule it.”


	10. Sticks and carrots

Stiles wakes up at six to find that he’s overslept—he’d only left the office at three-thirty and gotten to bed by four, but he needed to be back at Hale Capital by six—and his phone flashes the displeased information at him that he has three new voicemails. “Oh, god,” he groans, and trails a bedsheet as he rushes to grab his pants. 

He listens to the voicemails while shoving his legs into his trousers and trying to button them with one hand, phone in the other. “Stiles, this is Derek,” begins the first message, left at 5:15. “Where is the Martin presentation?” The second one, from 5:32, begins, “Stiles. The Martin presentation. I—” and he misses the second half of the message when he fumbles the phone, trying to slip his other arm through his shirt-sleeve. But he apparently didn’t miss much; when he picks up the phone, the third message, left at 5:50, is still from Derek: “The client is expecting the presentation this morning. Stiles. Where is it. Call me, or I’ll rip out your throat.”

Stiles winces. Derek’s voice sounds especially low and rough, as if he’s half-shifted while leaving the message. That isn’t good at all. He runs out the door of his apartment, and, rather than spend the time on the subway, flags down a taxi as soon as he gets to the street corner. Balancing his phone on his knee, he calls Derek and begins to knot his bowtie. It’s 6:10.

Derek picks up on the first ring. He doesn’t say anything, so Stiles rushes ahead with, “I’m almost there, really, just be there in a few minutes more, and I’ll have the presentation ready—”

“It’s not ready now.”

Stiles swallows tightly. “I was up all night working on another pitch. I was going to send the presentation at nine.”

“You should have emailed the team to let them know the presentation would be late.”

“It’s not late! It’s just not ready now, but it will be by nine.”

“The team is waiting for your work, Stiles.”

Stiles yelps, “Everyone’s there already?” He starts to get irritated, “But why wasn’t I told? I didn’t hear that we were having a meeting this early,” as he tosses a couple bills at the cab driver and stumbles out of the taxi, frantically swiping his card at the lobby security gates.

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles angrily thumbs the call off as he rushes into a waiting elevator. He stews the entire way to the twenty-first floor; not a long ride, given how empty the elevator is this early, though he’s not in it alone. 

His head is alternately throbbing with fury and sleep deprivation as he strides into his department’s suite. There’s no early-morning meeting that he’s been left out of the loop for, or Derek would have mentioned it. It’s just Derek calling Stiles in early, and he has barely slept, and the stupid report’s not even late—he flings himself down in his office chair. He’d not even bothered to turn off his computer when he left (three hours ago!), and the presentation’s already open for him. 

An hour and a half later, Derek strolls into Stiles’ office, without knocking as usual. Stiles informs him, “I’m just about to send the presentation.”

“You should email the team first to let them know you’re about to send the presentation,” Derek says, and Stiles nearly boils over with incandescent fury. He stares at Derek and, in silence, pointedly clicks his mouse.

“Oh,” he says coolly, “I already sent the presentation.”

Derek’s mouth tightens, and he stalks up to Stiles’ desk, putting a paper coffee cup down on it with an extra side of glare. He turns around and leaves without saying anything.

Stiles takes the lid off the coffee and smells his favorite, hazelnut macchiato. He sighs, his anger fading away. But, because he has some pride to maintain, he yells, “You can’t buy your way into my favors--favor, I mean! I mean you can't bribe me that easily! Because I'm not easy!”

He sighs at himself. “I’m such an idiot.”

He waits a second. There’s no reply.

Louder, he shouts, “Thank you!” And then mutters to himself, “Sourwolf.”


	11. Rising Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The work on the Argent deal begins in earnest.

It’s nine—Stiles got to sleep in for once and then leave with enough time to spare that he could take the subway and read the Journal on the way in, so he is feeling pleased with the world. His pleasure increases exponentially when Intern Isaac enters the conference room bearing coffee. “You are a prince among interns!” Stiles declares, and takes a grande slurp of his grande macchiato. Intern Isaac smiles shyly as he passes drinks around to the rest of the team, Derek, Jackson, Katlego, and Boyd.

“We need to cover a few details before the Managing Director and Vice President arrive,” Derek states as Intern Isaac slips discretely into a corner seat. “First off is the division of responsibilities. I need someone to take the lead on researching the client’s comparables—” At Katlego’s raised finger, he nods. “Thank you, Kat. Then there’s the client’s current finances and, Boyd, thank you. And the pitch book, Stiles, you recently closed with the Campbell and Markham project, can you—”

Stiles tips his hand back and forth. “I’m also on the Triskele, Trieme, Agent, Bouley, and Beacon projects. I could do the investments history research, but I could also use an extra set of hands. Can I call dibs on Intern Isaac?”

Derek looks irritated. “His name is just Isaac, Stiles.”

“But Intern Isaac alliterates!” Stiles protests, widening his eyes. “Like Stiles Stilinski, see? He’s clearly destined for similar success!”

Jackson gives a derisive snort, going straight for unpleasantness whenever it’s an option. Hale Capital must have had a poor pool to pick from when the hired him, though Stiles has to admit his work is always excellent. Shame about the personality, though. “Here’s some alliteration for you: the success of a pissant asshole should make him run in the opposite direction.” 

“‘Pissant asshole’ is assonantal, not alliterative,” Stiles shoots back.

Isaac silently looks between Stiles and Jackson, clearly a terrified bunny among wolves, even if Stiles and the other associates are only honorary wolves-by-association. Stiles tries not to smile as Derek’s glare falls heavily on Jackson, who drops his gaze after a moment and turns his head away. Derek says, “Hold the poetry lesson for later, Stiles. Jackson, I’ll need you to take on the pitch book.”

“Fine,” Jackson grumbles. “But only if I get the other two interns’ help. They can’t all be wasting their time on holding Stilinski’s hands.”

“Perhaps I need an intern of my own,” Boyd says mildly, and Katlego seconds this.

Derek looks irritated, though Stiles can’t tell if it’s at the general situation or Jackson more specifically. Stiles hopes it’s the latter. “Other people in our department also rely on interns, Jackson. You can request the aid of one. Boyd, Kat, call on Isaac whenever you need extra assistance.”

“Thanks, Derek,” Katlego says, and takes a note on her tablet with a pleased air. Boyd nods his appreciation.

The conference door opens and Laura enters. She pauses by the head of the table, scenting the air only to raise an eyebrow. “I see that the regulation airing of testosterone has already begun,” she comments mildly.

Stiles looks down at his tablet before he can grin, casting a discrete glance at Derek as he does so. He wonders idly what it must be like to work with family members. Stiles’ Dad had never seemed very appreciative, though that thing in tenth grade had caused a bit of a problem for him, and maybe Stiles could understand a lack of enthusiasm thereafter. 

Derek, however, seems unruffled. “We were just discussing task assignments. We’re ready to start the presentation whenever Peter arrives.”

“Gotcha,” Laura says, settling comfortably into the right-hand chair to the one at the table’s head. 

Moments later, Peter enters. He sits down with a calm authority that Stiles admires: it makes everyone pay attention immediately. “Argent Ventures represents a highly desirable client for Hale Capital, and we want to do our utmost to convince them that Hale is the right partner for this deal.” He looks sternly around the table, and Stiles feels himself involuntarily straightening up under Peter’s gaze. 

The Argent Ventures deal could potentially be a huge one—and it’s already been plagued by conflicting demands from the client, along with several meeting postponements. Peter’s involvement suggests that Hale Capital is gunning hard to make this one succeed, which is confirmed for Stiles when Peter continues. “While we may not be as large in staff or sheer financial resources as some of our competitors, our resources and, I am proud to say, our family of employees are a match for anyone. I am sure that, with the assistance of each of you, we will do well by Hale Capital, and even better by Argent Ventures.”

They all murmur their assent, and at Derek’s nod, Stiles keys up the presentation. “I’ve organized this overview of Argent Ventures to give us a sense for where we stand. It’s all preliminary data. . . .”

The meeting that follows proceeds smoothly and briskly, and Stiles hasn’t even finished his macchiato before they wrap up. The others leave first as he finishes taking a couple notes and then disconnects his tablet from the projector system. 

It’s his unfortunate luck that has him passing by the cracked door of Derek’s office in time to hear Laura say, “Derek, it’s past time. You need to begin courting again.”

Stiles winces, torn between a prurient interest and knowing that he shouldn’t be listening. His step hitches, but he doesn’t stop. Derek grumbles something unintelligible. 

Stiles isn’t out of earshot before Laura speaks again. “I’m not going to take ‘No’ for an answer.” Her voice has dropped in pitch, skirting the edges of a growl, and for the first time Stiles finds himself considering the family hierarchy of the Hales. He’d thought that Creepy Peter was the head of the family, but he’s never seen Peter cow Derek as quickly as Laura does—not that he sees Peter and Derek ever interacting outside the usual for associates and Managing Directors. 

Derek’s reply is thankfully unintelligible to Stiles, who ducks into his office and shuts the door behind him. Hale family business is not his business, and he has stuff to do. Lots of stuff, as it happens.

Stiles eyes his computer for a minute, then crosses back to his office door and sticks his head outside. “Hey, Intern Isaac!”


	12. Lederhosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Stiles meet for drinks.

Stiles is at Lederhosen and has already begun working on his first boot of beer when Scott finally arrives. The summer’s already turned hot and muggy, and Stiles is almost equally grateful for the air conditioner straining away above the Lederhosen’s front window as he is the cold beer. The bierhaus has painted alpine murals and barmaids wearing dirndls. It’s all very ironic.

“Stiles, hey!” Scott works his way through the crowded entry to shove in next to Stiles and take over the empty space that Stiles has been defending with sharp elbows for more than twenty minutes. 

“You’re late,” he whines, shoving the glass boot at Scott. “Have a drink.” Scott might not be able to get drunk, but Stiles refuses to drink alone, regardless. 

“Yeah, I, uh,” Scott says, charming and suave as always. “I was walking Allison to her subway stop.” 

Stiles can almost see the stars in his eyes, and restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Scott’s and Allison’s relationship is wonderful, epic, a thing of beauty, et cetera. She’s the daughter of the CEO of Argent Ventures, where Scott works as a junior financial officer. Every day, Stiles expects to hear that Scott has gotten fired. He has imagined the scenario several times, and it always begins with Allison’s father finding her and Scott in a supply closet. With Scott wolfed-out, of course. “She doesn’t use a car service?” 

“No!” Scott is clearly appalled at the suggestion. “She supports sustainable public transportation,” he says, and sighs happily into their beer.

“That’s great, dude,” Stiles says, obliging. He perks up, “Yeah, so, listen! You know that douche, Jackson, is an Associate on one of my teams?”

Scott nods, tipping up the boot with both hands for another swallow.

Stiles grins. “So, this morning, one of the Managing Directors needed the briefing book for that project. She’s in Los Angeles, so Jackson had to send it to her as an electronic file.” Stiles takes the boot back for some more beer. “We did that, and then she called Jackson back and yelled at him—the book’s over a hundred pages long, and it was taking, like, thirty minutes to print out!”

Scott snorts with laughter. “That’s great.”

“Yeah. I was nearby, talking to D—to one of the other Associates, and I could hear the Managing Director shouting. It was perfect. Jackson was so humiliated.” Stiles takes another gulp of beer, feeling supremely pleased with himself. “I’m glad I arranged things so he ended up as the Associate on point for that project.”

Scott looks worried. “Does he know that?”

Stiles shakes his head as they pass the boot back and forth a couple times. “No.” Stiles thinks back to the team meeting. “It was all about how I timed mentioning my other projects.” Derek had been paying attention, Stiles thought, but he was a jerk most of the time. He wouldn’t have noticed, either. 

“So you like working there?” Scott asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, so far. Jackson’s a douche, but the others aren’t so bad.” And Derek, especially, is not bad, despite how almost everything he does towards Stiles that seems positive could be interpreted exactly another way. And most of the negative things could also be interpreted as the opposite, provided one keeps in mind that Derek is uncommunicative, sour, and never prefers to state anything directly unless it’s about correcting Stiles’ modeling. The ambiguity mostly leaves Stiles off his stride. It’s very frustrating. And contributes to a lot of distraction at night.

The beer is running low; Scott tips the boot up and forgets that the toe has to point down. Beer rushes out of the toe and splashes over his chin. “Aw, damn!”

Stiles laughs, but is a good friend nevertheless. He hands Scott a napkin. “Wanna get some sausages and another boot?”

“Yeah!”


End file.
